


Wheel of Fortune

by shenshen77



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, First Meetings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenshen77/pseuds/shenshen77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pyramid in the middle of Croatia in 1943? You have got to be kidding. Add a mythical cannon wheel that will grant its owner success in all combat situations, Nazis, Soviets and a beautiful redhead hot on its heels - Not a good day for Clint "Hawkeye" Barton, adjunct professor of archaeology at Washington University in St. Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazy4Orcas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy4Orcas/gifts).



> My dear crazy4orcas asked for a Treasure Hunters AU and my mind immediately leapt to Indiana Jones. Add to that a rumor I heard about pyramids in what is now Bosnia and my imagination went on the run. Unfortunately it ran further than my time allowed, so only the first two chapters of the fic are done so far. But I'll add more asap, promise!
> 
> Many thanks to hufflepuffsneak for brainstorming and beta, frea_o for more brainstorming and the_nita for a final readthrough. All credits for the title go to restingface.

**Visoko, Independent State of Croatia, August 1943**

 

“Sam! Sam!” Clint Barton, adjunct professor of archaeology at Washington University in St. Louis, called out as he stormed into his hotel room and flung his hat into the corner.

 

The pilot looked up in alarm from his seat at the paper-strewn table, sweat beading his dark skin. The late summer heat was cloying, dry and relentless.

 

“What the hell's the matter?” Sam Wilson answered.

 

“Some broad stole the plans to the pyramid!” Clint fumed, rubbing his neck as he slammed the door behind him. He turned down the volume on his hearing aid.

 

Sam and Clint had started their treasure hunting side business after coming back from World War I. They'd been merely kids then, Barton half-deaf and Wilson a pilot without a plane. Now they were in their early 40s, hooked on the thrill of adventure ever since the first treasure they'd found twenty years ago had paid for Clint's college education and Sam's first plane.

 

“But how?” Sam asked just as he noticed the big brown stain on Clint's shirt. “She spilled her coffee on you? Seriously?”

 

“No, that was mine,” Clint answered with a scowl.

 

“Ah, that explains the bad mood,” Sam chuckled. “I mean, you do know that I made a copy of those plans, right?”

 

Clint rubbed his chin now, the irritation he felt at being duped by the beautiful redheaded woman making his skin crawl. He knew what was at stake, and yet he'd let himself be distracted. He couldn't help it, though; her green eyes seemed to see right into the bottom of his soul when their eyes met.

 

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for that. But this means we'll have to start the dig immediately. No idea who she works for, could be Schmidt, could be anyone. I mean, the whole place is teeming with Nazis. We can't risk the wheel falling into their hands.”

 

They'd been led to Visoko when Clint found an old diary mentioning that the mythical Ottoman Cannon had been buried in a pyramid in Croatia. He'd never heard of a pyramid in Croatia, but that was usually how their adventures started. A far-fetched tale that someone shared with them, an obscure reference in an even more obscure manuscript.

 

“Speaking of the wheel - I've been reading through those papers you left here. All this supernatural nonsense honestly makes my head spin. 'The wheel of the Ottoman Cannon will lead the owner to victory in any armed conflict they engage in.' Honestly? Please tell me you don't,” Sam said.

 

Clint sighed. He didn't really believe in magic, but if there was even a shred of truth in the story - he didn't want to imagine the possible repercussions if it fell into the wrong hands.

 

“I don't know what to believe. But it's better off in a museum in the US than in the hands of the Nazis.”

 

Sam watched him closely, then shrugged.

 

“Fair enough,” he said.

 

“Alright. We'll wait for nightfall and then try to get our hands on the wheel. We should go over the plans again.”

 

Sam nodded and made space for Clint at the table next to him.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

The sun set two hours later.

 

Clint grabbed his bow and arrows, his weapon of choice since he'd been a kid in the prairie. When the Dust took his parents and their farm, a traveling carnival became his and his brother's new home. He found a mentor there who honed his inherent skills to perfection. It had become his trademark, no matter how odd using a weapon from the palaeolithic era in these times was. But having a trademark also made him easily recognizable, so he stowed his weapon in a big duffle bag he slung over his shoulder. Sam checked his pistols and made sure that the rope and other spelunking gear they took was in working order.

 

The streets were nearly empty, crickets chirping lazily the only sound in the dark streets. People had the good sense to stay inside if they could, escaping the presence of Nazi soldiers and generally trying to stay out of the war. The air smelled of Turkish mocca, reminding Clint again of the coffee he didn't have earlier. It also reminded him of her - the redheaded woman who'd stolen his plans.

 

She must have been following him, had to know who he was and what he was after. Yet he hadn't noticed her at all before she'd spilled his coffee all over him. It worried him that he could have been so oblivious. He quickened his stride as they neared the outskirts of town, the overgrown pyramid now right in front of him. His thoughts were on the obstacles between him and the wheel. For a second he wondered if the beautiful redhead would be one of them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha Romanoff's information retrieval business got started as she made her way towards the West, offering her services to the highest bidders. Ever since she left the Red Room, the secret Russian training facility that had honed her skills as a spy, she'd found that there were always people willing to pay for information on hidden treasure or hidden agendas. Sometimes they paid with money, sometimes with information of their own. Sometimes even with friendship and comradery, which was how she ended up in Visoko in the first place.

 

She closed the door to the small cottage outside of town that was the Partisan resistance's headquarter. Her friend and host looked up from her desk, long dark-red hair in a messy bun at the nape of her neck and a question in her eyes.

 

"I've got the plans!" Natasha said with a grin, crossing the distance and laying the plans out on the desk.

 

Wanda Maximoff's face lit up.

 

"Pietro!" she shouted and her brother appeared in the blink of an eye from the next room.

 

"Did you get the plans?" he asked, gesturing at the papers Natasha was spreading out on the table.

 

"I did. Now we just have to see what they are," Natasha said.

 

Her sources had alerted her to the American professor's arrival, his reputation as a treasure hunter preceding him. She had followed him around town since his arrival late one night. His companion stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the white, sunburnt faces, but he didn't seem to mind, moving with ease and confidence. She didn't see the dark-skinned man during the daytime after they made it to their hotel on the outskirts of town, but she had seen a lot of the professor.

 

Professor Barton was of average height and built, his hair and skin just a bit too light to really blend in, his face a little too soft to be of the Balkans. He took long walks around the town, ducking into a church, the library and finally the mosque. She saw him talk to the imam and then he disappeared inside for a few hours. That night, he and his companion went into the woods at the foot of the town hill and only emerged at first daylight.

 

The next day Natasha talked to the imam herself, asking what the professor had inquired about. The imam then told her about the Ottoman Cannon and the legend surrounding it.

 

It had been commissioned in the 15th century by sultan Mehmed II when a Hungarian engineer presented the plans for it to him. The cannon had taken months to build, consuming vast resources and labor. In a bid to infuse it with more power the sultan had a wheel fitted to it that was said to have belonged to a Roman chariot. This chariot had never been beaten in a race at the coliseum, nor had an army led by it ever been defeated. The sultan believed that this would make his army undefeatable. For centuries that held true as the Ottoman empire spread throughout the Middle East and all the way up to Bosnia. It was only internal corruption that brought the empire down four-hundred years later, and in a last effort to save its remnants, the then reigning sultan Abdülhamid II had the great cannon that brought down the Byzantine empire hidden. Hidden in a pyramid somewhere in the empire, the imam didn't know where.

 

The professor had spent hours in the mosque's archives then, poring over tomes of books and maps. Natasha thanked the imam for his information, her brain already whirring as she computed everything she'd now learned. There was a cannon with supposedly supernatural properties, hidden in a pyramid, a professor of archaeology going into the woods at the foot of the town hill at night. Her eyes found the hill at the outskirts of town. Looking at it intensely, she suddenly saw what had been right before her eyes. A pyramid, hidden in plain sight, covered by soil and trees distorting its distinct shape.

 

The secret inside the hill had been lost to the centuries, erosion and neglect swallowing the pyramid from sight and memory. And suddenly Natasha Romanoff, Soviet-spy-turned-soldier-of-fortune, wished that she could disappear as completely as well; that she would be forgotten by the people she once worked for. Throughout most of her nearly 30 years she hadn't questioned her role as a weapon for the Soviet idea, there hadn't been a reason to. But ever since she started to question and finally ran away, she had felt the breath of her former employers down her neck, no matter how much or where she moved.

 

If what the imam had told her was true, then she had to make sure that neither the Nazis nor the Soviets would get their hands on the cannon's wheel. For that she needed the plans to the pyramid, and she was certain now that the professor had them.

 

The coffee burnt her skin when she ran into him on purpose. Using his momentary distraction as the scalding liquid hit his chest, she slipped the piece of paper she'd seen him reference frequently from his pocket and into her own. She then looked up to apologize and for a moment got lost in his blue-grey gaze. Her heart skipped a beat as she made a hasty excuse and disappeared in the bustle of people around the market square.

 

Pietro cleared his throat, bringing Natasha back to the here and now.

 

"There's a pyramid somewhere with a cannon in it, that much I can see on the plans. But where is this?" he asked.

 

"It's the town hill. Which is apparently not a natural hill after all," Natasha explained.

 

"So you're saying there's a pyramid that no one knew about? In Croatia of all places?" Wanda asked, her eyes wide.

 

"Yes, I'm sure of it. And I need to get inside before anyone else does, I can't let this wheel fall into the wrong hands," Natasha said.

 

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a look.

 

"We're coming with you," Wanda said.

 

Natasha wanted to protest, but Pietro cut her off.

 

"What, you didn't see that coming?" he said, grinning broadly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long, work was crazy and I got hit with a nasty case of writer's block. I hope you are still interested in reading and enjoy what I managed to come up with :) I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Much love and thanks to missm0neypenny and sneakyhufflepuff for their beta work, I couldn't have done it without you <3

Clint and Sam kept to the shadows in order not to attract the interest of the German soldiers occupying the city. The moon was full, casting the hill in front of them in an eerie light. Clint took his bow from his dufflebag as soon as the quiet city streets made way for corn fields at the edge of town.

 

"You know, I really didn't believe you at first when you said there was a pyramid here," Sam said under his breath, a grin on his face. "But for the sake of our friendship I followed you. And damn, I hate to say it, but you were right."

 

A smile made its way across Clint's face. "Didn't I tell you?"

 

"Yeah, with the right amount of imagination there's no way to mistake it for anything else," Sam said.

 

"Let's just hope that the Germans here don't have that kind of imagination."

 

"Knowing your luck, that's not gonna happen," Sam said drily.

 

"Thanks Sam, that really makes me feel better," Clint scoffed.

 

"Come on, man, you know it as well as I do, you're a disaster magnet. May I remind you of what happened that one time in Newfoundland?"

 

"That's unfair, Sam. No one could have foreseen that ice shelf giving way."

 

"Oh yeah? I didn't fall in that ice cave."

 

"Only because you knew it was there when I did. So really, it's more a blessing than a curse."

 

"Whatever you say, Clint, whatever you say."

 

Clint sighed. Sam was right, disaster courted him since he'd been a little boy. Yet somehow he'd always found a way out through sheer stubbornness and dumb luck.

 

His hand wandered to his hearing aid, raising the volume as they neared the foot of the hill.

 

_He could still vividly recall the day he'd lost his hearing, the roar of the battlefield, the impact of the mortar shell, the concussive force as the shockwave hit him, the silence that followed. Then there was Sam, who he'd never seen before, leaning over him. He could see Sam's mouth moving, but no words registered with Clint. There was just a loud, high-pitched whine in his ears as he shook his head to try and clear it. Sam seemed to understand what had happened, grabbed him by the arm, pulled him up and pushed Clint towards the woods to the East. They started running as another shell hit not too far from where they stood._

 

_Clint caught glimpses of the utter devastation surrounding them and the sights would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. He could feel and see the shells still impacting around them. Not hearing their loud whistle as they approached was scaring the shit out of him. He stuck to Sam like birds of a feather, knowing that the other man was his best chance at survival._

 

_And survive they did. They reached the cover of the trees in no time flat, Sam leading the way. He later showed Clint that he had broken his arm and Clint set it when they settled in for the night. Even though they couldn't actually talk, Clint got to like Sam over the next two days as they made their way back to their own forces. Once they were both safely in a field hospital in France, they talked - or rather wrote - sharing a notebook and pen, cementing the friendship they'd forged._

 

Suddenly a branch snapped to their left, wrenching Clint from his memories and raising his bow, an arrow nocked without thinking. Sam had his hand on his pistol as the last echo faded and a rough voice demanded, "Halt, wer geht da?"

 

They had to run into a German patrol, demanding them to stop and identify themselves, of course they did. Or maybe it wasn't a patrol, maybe it was Schmidt's team, intercepting them before they could get their hands on the wheel.

 

"Wir vertreten uns nur die Beine," Clint replied, knowing that his German was clunky and that the soldiers would never believe that they were just out for a stroll. But it was buying him and Sam some time to come up with a different plan.

 

A group of three soldiers in Nazi uniforms stepped out of the shrubs, their rifles pointed at Clint and Sam. The leader looked Sam up and down, his face screwed up in a displeased frown.

 

"Ihr seid keine Deutschen. Was macht ihr hier?"

 

No shit they were no Germans, Clint thought - and then he absolutely stared as three shadows appeared behind the Nazi soldiers.

 

A tall young man, whose white hair gleamed in the dim moonlight, ran out from the underbrush. He tackled the soldier closest to him to the ground and began pounding him into the ground. Beside him a petite woman with dark hair, whose features resembled his, swung a branch at the soldier in front of her. She caught him right on the chin as he turned around to see what had happened to his comrade. He fell like a cut tree.

 

Clint was still trying to fathom what was going on and how he could help when a small figure leapt up and wrapped her legs around the neck of the soldier closest to her, pulling him down into the dirt.

 

Twenty seconds later, she rose from next to the lifeless body of the patrol leader, the sharp angles of her face thrown in stark relief by the twilight. It was too dark to make out the color of her hair, but Clint knew that it was bright red.

 

"What the...," Sam muttered beside him, his hand still on his pistol.

 

"You! You stole my plans!"

 

Her voice was husky and lightly accented as she replied, "Yes, I did. And it seems it was a good thing too, don't you think?" A smile played on her lips as she sauntered up to Clint.

 

Sam chuckled, which earned him a jab in the ribs from Clint.

 

"You're with the Partisans?" Clint asked.

 

"Yes, we are," the young man said, his diction hard, his Slavic roots more pronounced than those of the red-headed woman. "And I think we both want the same thing."

 

Clint nodded. "You know what's supposed to be buried here. We can't let the Germans have it. It belongs in a museum."

 

"I agree, we can't let them have it," the redhead said. "I know your reputation, Professor Barton. You have a way of finding things. We have a way of making things disappear. Together we can make sure that the Nazis never get their hands on the wheel."

 

"Alright, lady," Sam injected. "You have made your point, and it was quite impressive. Now, I'm all for collaboration and it seems that you know exactly who we are. But frankly, I have no idea who you are. A name would be nice, at least."

 

The woman smiled, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. She held herself proud, her eyes flashing to Clint before she addressed Sam.

 

"Mr. Wilson, please excuse me. My name is Natasha Romanoff, these are Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. Let's find this thing together, shall we?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> The place I set this in is real, you can read up on the pyramid claims here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bosnian_pyramid_claims  
> The Ottoman Cannon is also a real thing, I just took some liberties with it :) You can find more info here: http://obviousmag.org/en/archives/2008/12/the_ottoman_cannon.html


End file.
